Classic Poem

Addressed to a Gentleman on his leaving Wales .

Y E swains of Plinlimmon attend,
Who pipe on the verge of the steep,
Where torrents sonorous descend
Thro' pastures white over with sheep;
Attend to the bard of the dale,
Who mourns at the foot of the rock;
While scatter'd abroad thro' the vale,
All carelessly rambles his flock.

Ye swains of the mountain — adieu!
Ye torrents sonorous — farewel!
How oft have I listen'd to you,
Reclined in my moss-cover'd cell;
While Severn roll'd chearful along,
Clear Rydall, and sweet-flowing Wye;
And oft I have warbled a song
To the waves that ran murmuring by.

Ah! then I was jovial and gay,
As the blush that emblazons the dawn,
As the stream that steals gently away,
And purls — as it glides o'er the lawn:
Alert from my grotto I flew —
Snatch'd my pipe, and my sachel, and crook,
While the herbage was sprinkled with dew,
And the mist it still hung o'er the brook.

But why do I droop with my woe,
And mingle my sighs with the wind?
I'm forced my loved plains to forego
And leave my Sabrina behind!
Ye zephyrs that fan the sad grove,
Thro' the willows all-plaintively creep;
Llwellin is forced from his love,
His fountains, his grottos, and sheep.

How heavily drags the sad day!
While I linger, as loath to depart;
Tho' forced from my charmer away —
Her image still dwells in my heart:
I sit by a fountain and weep,
And pour forth my plaints to the wind,
Oh! why must I leave my poor sheep?
And leave my Sabrina — behind?

Ah! what will become of my flock,
My crook, and my pipe, and my bowl,
My vineyard that clings to the rock —
Whose clusters enliven the soul!
My kid, and my favorite Tray?
Alas! ye soft lambkins adieu!
No longer Llwellin must stay
On the plains — with Sabrina, and you.

Come fancy, and paint on my mind —
In traces so vivid, and bright, —
The moment my fair-one was kind,
And my soul was absorb'd in delight —
How she smiled when I told my soft pain,
Then blushing — corrected her smile: —
In vain, my Sabrina, in vain —
You strove your fond swain to beguile:

For the language of love is sincere,
Tho' the tongue in feign'd descant may rove,
Regardless the jargon we hear —
While th' eyes speak the language of love:
The anguish I felt at my heart,
When last from your arms I withdrew
Was soften'd, — you bade me depart, —
But your eyes said — " Llwellin be true . "

And true to his love he'll remain
While the mountain o'er-shadows the dale,
While Severn glides swift thro' the plain,
And her waves they make fertile the vale:
Tho' forced those dear charms to forego —
Thy image shall dwell in my mind,
My heart it would burst with its woe,
Should I fancy Sabrina unkind.